By: Rev. Dr. Harold Marrero
Okay, full disclosure.
I am one of those people.
I walk past strangers on the sidewalk and say hello. Sometimes it is “good morning”; sometimes it is a comment about the weather; sometimes it is just a nod that says, “I see you.” And almost every time, I am genuinely surprised when someone responds.
Anyone who has lived in Miami understands this. We live close together, yet often feel far apart. It is a city shaped by movement and transition, where people arrive and leave, where lives overlap without always touching. So when someone returns a greeting, it can feel like a small interruption in the usual rhythm. A reminder that connection is still possible.
I am also often aware of how this lands with the people walking beside me. Over the years, I have been told I am “too friendly.” My curiosity about people, their lives, and their stories feels unusual. Sometimes it has even been misunderstood, as if genuine interest must carry some hidden purpose. As if asking about someone’s life always means wanting something in return.
I understand that instinct. Many of us have learned it the hard way. We have experienced attention that wasn’t really presence, listening that wasn’t really listening. Those experiences teach us to be cautious, to guard ourselves, to keep our interactions brief and contained.
And still, when I look back on my life, the most meaningful relationships I have known began with moments of openness. Moments when someone took the risk to be real, and I did too. Moments when listening was not transactional, and sharing came without rehearsing the outcome.
Some of the best people in my life entered it because I stayed present long enough to hear their story, and then trusted them with mine. No armor. No agenda. Just honesty. An entire ministry grew out of that way of being. No Reservations was built by people who began as strangers and slowly became a community. People from different places, backgrounds, and beliefs, connected by their shared life in Miami-Dade and a deep longing for belonging.
Caitlin writes about her father baking cookies and leaving them on neighbors’ doorsteps. She describes the care behind that simple act, the quiet question he asks each year, who might be alone this holiday, and want some?
There is something tender about that image. Orange sugar cookies wrapped in foil. A small offering. A gesture that says, you were thought of. You are not invisible.
Those cookies feel like a greeting. An invitation. A reminder that connection often begins in simple, ordinary ways. A knock on a door. A shared moment. A willingness to reach beyond the familiar.
When we stay open to one another through small acts of kindness, something shifts. Space opens. Possibility returns. New friendships emerge. New connections form. Especially in a time when so many of us are hungry for wonder, for awe, for reassurance that our shared humanity is still alive and reachable.
Sometimes those moments arrive quietly. A hello returned. A cookie received. A conversation that lingers just a little longer than expected.
So maybe the invitation before us is gentle and brave all at once. To step slightly outside our routines. To stay curious. To risk being ourselves, even when it feels vulnerable. To trust that presence, offered honestly, still matters.
Like Caitlin asks us, where are you longing to be invited in? What brings you joy that you might invite others into? And where can you take the risk to be you, and let others in?